BORN IN CHINA

(I previously wrote and posted this blog, but something which happened today caused me to remember it. As I rounded the corner of my house, a large hawk, not more than three feet away from me, flew into the air. Two seconds later I noticed the nature of his quest. There was a large white and orange cat hiding behind one of my azalea bushes. The predator and the prey. After I saw the TV documentary mentioned in the following blog, I experienced much more empathy for both the predator and the prey)

Following is an excerpt from the script of a recent nature documentary titled, “Born in China;” with editing and additional clarification by yours truly.

Call me ‘sensitive,’ but as a rule I just can’t watch those “Crocodile eats zebra as it swims across an African stream” kind of film productions. However, in the scheme of things “Born in China” goes relatively light on gruesome scenes such as the foregoing description would indicate.

Nonetheless, it doesn’t “pull any punches,” and there are a few scenes in which, for instance, a snow leopard grasps a young calf by the neck, or is seen dragging a newly killed mountain goat back to its den. Speaking of snow leopards, there are only 6,000 of these magnificent felines still in existence, and they are being trophy hunted to the tune of one kill per day.

“Born in China” is a magnificent, full-color production, and spins the true tales of several species of wild animals, including pandas, monkeys, mountain goats, and of course, snow leopards; which live in the highlands of China. I never realized such compassion for a predator species ‘til I watched this documentary.

Under Dawa's nurturing, her cubs are growing into two impressive young cats. And she's just had a successful hunt which comes none too soon. Her cubs are now fully weaned and hungry for some fresh meat. They've been watching and learning the ways of the great hunter, their morn, (but are not yet prepared to hunt on their own).

Suddenly across the valley, the intruder has returned.

(The ‘intruder’ refers to another female snow leopard who vies for the choice animal-rich territory which Dawa calls ‘home’).

This time, she has returned with her three nearly grown sons. Scarcity of prey has brought them into Dawa's territory, and they are more than prepared to take all that is hers. Dawa's old rival is much more emboldened now that she has reinforcements. Her powerful foe, and Dawa both know the latter of the two would never survive a fight against all four of her competitors.

However, Dawa can't bring herself to abandon this precious food. Her cubs must eat, and when it comes to their survival, Dawa would fight almost any foe. The trade-off between life and death is sometimes a very difficult calculation. But then the other leopards move in. (Dawa watches from a distance, and reluctantly decides to “turn tail and run”). Outnumbered and out-fanged, Dawa retreats to guard her cubs. Not satisfied with merely stealing Dawa's kill, the interlopers now pursue her to let her know, they're here to stay. To save her young, Dawa must lead them out of the area. She has experienced overwhelming humiliation. The proud snow leopard and her cubs have been expelled from their own home.

As the temperatures begin to plummet, the once mighty Queen of the Mountain hasn't made a kill in over a week. Now, she's forced to share her unfamiliar new territory with her more successful rivals. She must survey the area constantly to get the lay of the land and reestablish her dominion with scent markings. But now she's been spotted by a male snow leopard. She defends her ground bravely, but is forced to retreat back to her cubs. Suddenly, those playful days of summer are a fading memory.

Dawa's hunting successes have been few and far between. But a flock of sheep, seeking shelter from the weather, have just moved within range. However, now the unexpected occurs. The snow has concealed jagged rocks, and as Dawa leaps from ledge to ledge in pursuit of a choice lamb, she injures her paw. Dawa knows if she and her cubs are to survive, she must be in top physical condition. The ‘hunt’ demands it.

Back up on the high plateau the winter snow lingers well into spring, and Dawa is still fighting to provide for her cubs. The injury to her foot has greatly hampered her hunting ability, and she no longer has the speed to chase down prey, as nimble as these wild sheep. However, an opportunity now arises. In springtime, domesticated yaks are released to graze in the higher elevations. These beasts are ten times as heavy as Dawa, and one blow from their powerful horns could be fatal. Going up against a whole herd is like attacking an army. Yet, her cubs are relying on her. It's now or never.

The limping Dawa pours on her limited speed, and sinks her fangs into the neck of a newborn yak. The calf's mother rallies to save her baby. But Dawa refuses to let go. She understands this is her last chance. However, a yak mother's will to protect her young is just as strong as Dawa's.

The yak strikes Dawa hard with her horns. The desperate feline is injured badly. One mother's brave rescue of her baby is another's tragic failure to feed her own. Dawa stumbles away from “the scene of the crime,” and her last opportunity to save herself and her young cubs from certain death.

(As the documentary reaches its conclusion, a momentary glimpse of the dead Dawa comes into view. Snow is falling hard around her, and we can only surmise that her cubs have also succumbed to hunger and the elements, and lie somewhere nearby.

 

One can only imagine the waning emotions which filled up Dawa’s dying frame. The pride of having, "push come to shove" stood up to a larger foe, the inherent satisfaction with having given her last full measure of devotion, the inestimable sadness of her best not having been good enough; the overwhelming grief which came with her inability to save her children from the same fate as her own. A string of ‘bad luck.’ The survival of the fittest. Providence has once again won out).

 

In Chinese mythology, when a life ends, a crane carries that soul to rejoin the cycle of birth and rebirth. From the end to the beginning. Time pushes this cycle ever forward. The young become adults. The adults grow old. Death is not the end. It is merely a waypoint in a circle that continues endlessly. 

Every creature plays its part in this great cyclical symphony. Each life lived is just one beat in the larger beautiful rhythm. This vast land breeds both love and hardship. But in the hardship, there is hope. This is where they live. This is where they die. This is where they grow. This is where they are born.

from “Born in China” documentary with editing by William McDonald, PhD

THE CURRENT IMMIGRATION POLICY OF THE UNITED STATES (a.ka. IT AIN'T ROCKET SCIENCE)

I believe something has to be done to contain the current flood of illegal minor children (15,000 thus far) into the United States from Mexico and Central American countries.

The journey which these minor children take, in some cases a thousand miles in length, is simply dangerous and unconscionable.

I cannot imagine their parents allowing them to pack everything up and head across deserts and jungles, and at the same time experience the very real possibility of robbers and rapists, hunger, thirst, the spread of the Corona Virus (which 1 in 8 are positive for) and possible death.

It ain't gonna happen, but I would suggest our president contact all the nations from which these minor children are coming, and insist that their borders be closed to this mass migration, and if these countries refuse to do anything to stem the flood of illegal immigrants, that our military be sent into these nations, and forcibly seal their borders for them.

A notice by flyer, newspaper, radio, TV, and/or social media should be provided to the inhabitants of these countries that if they insist on crossing U.S. borders, after rest and a meal they would be transported back across the Mexican border, and surrendered to whatever social agencies (such as the Salvation Army) exist there. (Obviously, the word would get around that there would be no long term sanctuary in the United States).

Those who wish to apply for asylum could apply at the U.S. Embassy in their respective countries and need not make the long and dangerous trek to the U.S. No asylum applications would be accepted on our side of the U.S. border.

(I guess I should run for the highest office in the land).

by William McDonald, PhD

IT'S A BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

 There is a new movie out with Tom Hanks called, “A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood.” And since I had previously written about Mister Rogers, (a blog that is not included here) I had more than a passing interest in seeing the movie.

Admittedly, I feel a little guilty going to a movie alone these days, as my wife is staying with our grandson, while our daughter is spending a month in Nepal, (yes, Nepal) engaged in doing social work with an NGO there. (But, admittedly, the guilt wasn’t potent enough to preclude me from following through with my plan last night).

Well, so I got dressed, and drove the ten or twelve minutes which separated me from the local theater in time for the first Friday evening premier showing. However, when I arrived, I discovered that the parking lot was full to overflowing, and I surmised that I didn’t want any part of sitting “bunched up” against a person on my left and one on my right, and a theater packed out like sardines in a can. As a result, I had no sooner drove into the “asphalt jungle” that I turned around and drove out of it.

Having arrived home, and put on my jogging shorts and muscle shirt, I debated whether I would “take in” the 10:30pm showing of the movie. I was tired, and I knew my ambition would, no doubt, progressively wane in the two hours which separated me from the process of redressing, getting in the car, and heading back to the theater.

However, as a counselor I tell my clients that there’s a great substitute for ambition, since ambition is little more than an emotion. The substitute? A decision. After all, anything good must be done “on purpose.” Only wrecks happen by accident. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist that little teaching).

Pt. 2

Thus, I made a premeditated decision to take in the late movie. I realized that the theater would be “blown out” on Saturday, and I would find myself in exactly “the same boat” as I experienced the first time that I drove up to the theater.

Throwing my street clothes back on, I walked out the door at 9:55pm, and retraced my route of two hours earlier. Ten minutes later I drove into… an almost empty parking lot, and, as you might expect, I wasn’t complaining.

Exiting the car, I walked the twenty yards which separated me from my quest; the box office window. And as I stepped up to the young lady in the booth, and she looked expectantly at me, waiting for me to announce the movie of my choice, I almost involuntarily began to sing.

(Yeah, I did).

“It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood…”

And then, the slightest bit self-conscious, I mused,

“I bet lots of folks have walked up to you tonight singing that song.”

To which “Anna” replied,

“Ummm. Nope, you’re the first one!”

(Now, I really did feel like a fool. LOL).

Having purchased my ticket, I walked through the front door and into the lobby, had my ticket punched by the attendant, walked to the candy counter, asked for a senior popcorn and coke, paid for my goodies, and proceeded to theater number three; down the hallway, second door on the right.

Pt. 3

Walking into the theater, I found it to be very dark, very quiet, and …very empty.

As a matter of fact, I was the only human being in the whole place! And, as I always do, I climbed the steps of the amphitheater to the top, walked to the middle of the row of seats, and plopped down, dead center; setting my drink in the right holder, and my wallet, and cell phone in the left one. (I am one of those guys who doesn’t like to carry stuff in my pockets. Even when I go to a restaurant, I immediately set the obtrusive items on the table).

Be that as it may, I sat “all by my lonely” on the top row of the theater, as the commercials for upcoming movies ran for 15 plus minutes. However, finally, finally the opening credits of “A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood” flickered onto the screen.

And as you might imagine, the first scene had a fairly believable Tom Hanks, portraying Mr. Rogers, walking through the door of his “play room,” opening a nearby closet, exchanging his suit coat for a red sweater, and taking off his street shoes, and replacing them with sneakers.

To be fair, I thought the well-known actor’s attempt to replicate Mr. Rogers’ voice was slightly contrived, (but perhaps only slightly). At the same time, he looked enough like “the real McCoy” for this audience of one to settle in, and absorb the plot and implications of the movie.

And without absolutely spoiling it for you, suffice it to say that the plot centered around a fella named Tom Junod, (though he assumes a different name in the film), an Esquire magazine journalist, and his relationship with Mr. Rogers; (which all began when the former contacted the latter for an interview).

Ultimately, this interview was titled, “Can You Say…Hero?” and became the feature story for the November 1998 issue of Esquire magazine, and featured (there’s that word again) the beaming image of Mr. Rogers on the cover.

Pt. 4

And again, without giving away anything, Mr. Rogers made a profound difference in Tom Junod’s life, and for that matter, the life of his entire family. He made a difference in many lives that God set in his pathway.

There was an exchange in the movie in which our “hero” is speaking on the phone with the foregoing journalist, and he says,

“Do you know who the most important person in my life is, Tom?”

And perhaps Junod merely responded with, “Who?”

And with a twinkle in his eye, and a slight catch in his characteristic voice, Mr. Rogers replies,

“Well, at this very moment, Tom, you are the most important person in my life!”

I think that’s how he made you feel. Yes, I think that’s how he made you feel. As if for that moment in time, you were the only person who really mattered to him.

I felt very much this way when I paraphrased the Book of Philippians; (years before I paraphrased the entire New Testament). It was as if I was given the wherewithal to walk into Paul’s Roman cell, and sit down beside him, and talk with him about his life, and impact and suffering, to know him as my friend and brother, and to realize his compassion and joy in spite of the circumstances which surrounded him.

Following is a poignant reminiscence from an article about Mr. Rogers.

“Every morning, when he swims, he steps on a scale in his bathing suit and his bathing cap and his goggles, and the scale tells him he weighs 143 pounds. This has happened so many times that Mister Rogers has come to see that number as a gift, as a destiny fulfilled, because, as he says,

‘the number 143 means I love you. It takes one letter to say I, and four letters to say love, and three letters to say you. One hundred and forty-three. I love you. Isn't that wonderful?’”

Pt. 5

And now, the movie finally drew to a close, and I hesitated to leave. After stuffing my wallet and cell phone back into my pockets, I ambled down the long flight of steps, and paused to see if any actual footage of the “real” Mister Rogers would appear on the screen. And, in fact, it did.

There he was standing in his element, in his little “play room” with his puppets, and lighting up his little world with that memorable smile.

Now, I walked down the long hallway which led out of the very dark, very quiet and… very empty theater. And as I walked out the door, and into the lobby of the place, I could still hear the closing song as it trailed off behind me.Top of Form

 

Bottom of Form

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood
A beautiful day for a neighbor
Could you be mine?
Would you be mine?

Let's make the most of this beautiful day
Since we're together, might as well say
Would you be my, could you be my
Won't you be my neighbor?

A lone security guard greeted me, as I neared the exit of the building. The lights were turned down low. No one was behind the candy counter, and the ushers were, by now, heating up their TV dinners, or turning in for the night.

And now, I pushed open the exit door, and stepped out into the street. And a penetrating moment of sadness suddenly overwhelmed me.

I can’t really account for why I experienced that fleeting emotion. Perhaps it had something to do with the poignancy of losing anyone so singular as this man happened to be, and who had impacted several generations of children.

Children who ultimately became fathers and mothers, and subsequently, grandfathers and grandmothers; while their own children and grandchildren continued to be entertained by the same humble little man; who to children presented as an adult, and who to adults seemed almost childlike.

 

So much like the journalist, I felt almost as if I had been granted my own personal interview with Mister Rogers. After all, I had been the only human being within fifty feet in any direction, and I experienced a strange sensation that this man had set aside a bit of his valuable time, as he did with countless other people during his lifetime… for me.

And perhaps during those few moments which he granted me, I was, indeed, the most important person in his life.

*Tom Hanks was recently informed that he and Mister Rogers are 6^th cousins. No wonder they look alike.

By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

MR. ROGERS NEIGHBORHOOD

 

In the wake of the horrific terrorist attack in Manchester, England many people shared a quote by everyone’s favorite neighbor.

His mother had said, “Whenever you are scared. Always look for the helpers. They’ll be there. No matter how bad things are, there are always people willing to help.”

Anthony Breznican, a senior writer at Entertainment Weekly once experienced a lifetime encounter with Fred Rogers that will restore your faith in humanity. Breznican, like Rogers, hails from Pittsburgh. And like most of us, he grew up watching Mr. Rogers. And then he outgrew him. Until he needed his kindness again, when he was in college.

“As I got older, I lost touch with the show, (which ran until 2001). But one day in college, I rediscovered it. I was having a hard time. The future seemed dark. I was struggling. Lonely. Dealing with a lot of broken pieces, and not adjusting well. I went to Pitt and devoted everything I had to a school paper; hoping it would propel me into some kind of worthwhile future.

It was easy to feel hopeless. During one season of my life it was especially bad. Walking out of my dorm, I heard familiar music.

‘Won’t you be my neighbor?’

The TV was playing in the common room. Mr. Rogers was asking me what I do with the mad I feel. I had lots of ‘mad’ stored up. Still do. It feels so silly to say, but I stood mesmerized. His program felt like a cool hand on my head. I left feeling better.”

Then, days later something amazing happened. Breznican went to step into an elevator. The doors opened, and he found himself looking into the face of Mr. Rogers. Breznican kept it together at first. The two just nodded at each other. But when Mr. Rogers began to walk away, he couldn’t miss the opportunity to say something.

“The doors open. He lets me go out first. I step out, but turn around.

‘Mr. Rogers, I don’t mean to bother you. But I just want to say, Thanks.’

He smiles, but this probably happens to him every ten feet all day long.

‘Did you grow up as one of my neighbors?’

I felt like crying.

‘Yeah. I did.’

With this, Mr. Rogers opened his arms, lifting his satchel, for a hug.

‘It’s good to see you again, neighbor.’

I got to hug Mr. Rogers! This is about the time we both began crying.”

But this story is about to get even better.

“We chatted a few minutes. Then Mr. Rogers started to walk away. After he had taken a couple of steps, I said in a kind of rambling rush that I’d stumbled on the show recently when I really needed it. So, I said, ‘Thanks’ for that. Mr. Rogers paused, and motioned towards the window, and sat down on the ledge.

This is what set Mr. Rogers apart. No one else would have done this. He says,

“Do you want to tell me what is upsetting you?”

So, I sat down. I told him my grandfather had just died. He was one of the good things I had. I felt lost. Brokenhearted. I like to think I didn’t go on and on, but pretty soon he was talking to me about his granddad, and a boat the old man had given to him as a kid.

Mr. Rogers asked how long ago my Pap had died. It had been a couple of months. His grandfather was obviously gone for decades. He still wished the old man was here, and wished he still had the boat.

‘You never really stop missing the people you love,’ Mr. Rogers said.

That boat had been a gift from his grandfather for something. Maybe good grades; something important. Rogers didn’t have the boat anymore, but he had given him his ethic for work.

‘Things, really important things that people leave with us are with us always.’

By this time, I’m sure my eyes looked like stewed tomatoes. Finally, I said, ‘thank you,’ and I apologized if I had made him late for an appointment.

‘Sometimes you’re right where you need to be,’ he said.

Mr. Rogers was there for me. So, here’s my story on the 50^th anniversary of his program for anyone who needs him now. I never saw him again. But that quote about people who are there for you when you’re scared? That’s authentic. That’s who he was. For real.”

Mr. Rogers died in 2003. When Breznican heard the news, he sat down at his computer, and cried. Not over the loss of a celebrity, but a neighbor.

Thank you for being one of those helpers, Mr. Rogers. We hope that somewhere, you’re in a boat with your grandpa again.

 (Allison Carter)

Pt. 1

Earlier today as I walked into our dining room, (which used to be our living room and faces the street) I noticed my wife had raised the windows to allow a bit of fresh air to permeate the room.

From my way of thinking the air was a bit too fresh, since though it is St. Patrick’s Day we have been experiencing some chilly weather. As a result, I made Jean aware that I was cold, and would she please close the windows.

To which she replied,

“Why? It’s a beautiful day!”

And to which I responded,

(in song)

“It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood.”

And this simple little ditty brought to mind someone whom I may have thought of all of two or three times during the first 17 years of our current century.

“Mr. Rogers”

And suddenly, I experienced such a poignant moment of sadness, as I reflected on the man who left us in 2003; just prior to his 75^th birthday.

I admit to being a bit surprised with the emotional response the song conjured up in me. I mean, by the time his “Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood” came along I was in college, and well past the age of watching children’s television programs. Of course, like anyone else I saw snippets of the series which had a remarkable run of 33 years. (1968-2001). Who can forget his, “It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood,” (a song he wrote himself, and which was characterized by a myriad of comedians, including Eddie Murphy in a skit on “Saturday Night Live”).

Of course, as he sang his well-worn jiggle Mr. Rogers always threw open the closet door, and traded his jacket for a woolen sweater, and changed out his street shoes for old sneakers.

Pt. 2

I can’t really account for why I experienced that sudden moment of sadness. Perhaps it had something to do with the poignancy of losing anyone so singular as this man happened to be, and who had impacted several generations of children. Children who ultimately became fathers and mothers, and subsequently, grandfathers and grandmothers; while their own children and grandchildren continued to be entertained by the same humble little man; who to children presented as an adult, and who to adults seemed almost childlike.

It seems Fred loved all of God’s creations, as he was a lifelong vegetarian. He was known to have said that he could not eat anything that had a mother. The following story comes from an unknown source on the internet.

The first time I met Mister Rogers, who throughout his television tenure tipped the scales at 143 lbs., he told me a story of how deeply his simple gestures had been felt, and received. He had just come back from visiting the 300 lb. Koko, the Gorilla; who has been taught American Sign Language. Koko watches television. Koko watches Mister Rogers' Neighborhood. And when Mister Rogers, in his sweater and sneakers, entered the place where she lives, Koko immediately folded him in her long, black arms, as though he were a child, and then, according to Mr. Rogers,

... "She took my shoes off.”

As I previously inferred my childhood included earlier television personalities, such as Captain Kangaroo, (Bob Keeshan), Mr. Green Jeans, (Hugh Brannum), Howdy Doody, Buffalo Bob and Roy Rogers. I remember them fondly, and I can imagine how much the several generations who followed me loved Mr. Rogers.

Interestingly enough, Fred Rogers was an ordained Presbyterian minister, but it appears he never spent a single day in the role of a pastor or spiritual leader; except to the children whom God chose to set in his pathway. His denomination charged that he “continue creating and contributing to wholesome children’s television programs.”

It seems ironic to me that “Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood” endured a full third of a century. 33 Years. The same span of years which were afforded Jesus to live, and move, and breathe on this planet. And while it is impossible to offer too close a comparison, Fred Rogers was as surely ‘called’ to his office, as any minister of the Gospel has ever been called to his; and as they have all been chosen by the One who took on flesh and dwelt among us.

Millions of children, parents and grandparents remember with fondness that humble little man who walked through that rustic wooden door on a daily basis, traded his jacket for a woolen sweater, and his street shoes for a pair of old sneakers; while singing that simple song which still endears him to those whom he has left behind.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

It's a beautiful day in this neighborhood,
A beautiful day for a neighbor,
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?

So let's make the most of this beautiful day,
Since we're together, we might as well say,
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
Won't you be my neighbor?

Won't you please,
Won't you please,
Please won't you be my neighbor?

A LITTLE SICK BOY & HEAVEN

A little boy who had experienced significant health issues asked his father,

“Daddy, what is it like to die?

(and)

“Should I be afraid?”

His father was caught a bit off guard, but he looked down at the little fella with loving eyes, sat down, and pulled him into his lap.

“Timmy, do you remember when you were younger, how you fell asleep on the couch, and woke up in your own bedroom?”

To which the little boy smiled a half smile, and nodded.

“Well, of course after you fell asleep on the sofa, I would lift you up, and walk you into your own room, lay you down on your bed, tuck you in, and you would wake up there in the morning.”

As the young boy looked intently into his father’s eyes, his dad continued.

“Just like I used to lift you up after you feel asleep, and gathered you in my arms, and walked you into your own room, our Father in heaven will do the same thing. You will fall asleep here, He will lift you up in His strong arms, and you will wake up in heaven.”

And from that day until the day that the precious little boy passed from this life, he was no longer afraid.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

PLANTING CORN

 There was a farmer who grew excellent quality corn. Every year he won the award for the best grown corn. One year a newspaper reporter interviewed him and learned something interesting about how he grew it. The reporter discovered that the farmer shared his seed corn with his neighbors. “How can you afford to share your best seed corn with your neighbors when they are entering corn in competition with yours each year?” the reporter asked.

“Why sir,” said the farmer, “Didn’t you know? The wind picks up pollen from the ripening corn and swirls it from field to field. If my neighbors grow inferior corn, cross-pollination will steadily degrade the quality of my corn. If I am to grow good corn, I must help my neighbors grow good corn.”

So is with our lives... Those who want to live meaningfully and well must help enrich the lives of others, for the value of a life is measured by the lives it touches. And those who choose to be happy must help others find happiness, for the welfare of each is bound up with the welfare of all...

USING BEETHOVEN'S NAME IN VAIN

 Years ago Leonard Bernstein agreed to do a special performance for a New York rich lady and her friends, and brought his orchestra with him. It just so happened that Bernstein had written all the music for the evening. When the performance was over, "Mrs. Brown" commented, "Oh Leonard, that was wonderful! Who wrote the music?" Well, the famous conductor didn't want to embarrass her by saying, "Me" so he responded with, "Beethoven." And now Mrs. Brown continued to show her ignorance of music when she asked, "Oh, is he still composing?" To which Bernstein responded, "No ma'am. He's decomposing!"

CHILDREN, CAN WE SAY "POLITICALLY CORRECT"?

 DR. SEUSS & THE CANCEL CULTURE

(a.k.a. Children, Let's Get Politically Correct)

They cancelled your feelings

They cancelled your thoughts

They cancelled the Dr. Seuss

Books that you bought

We'll cancel your culture

And history they said

They even cancelled

Poor Mr. Potato Head

They'll cancel your clothes

And the shoes that you wear

They'll cancel your opinions

And the style of your hair

You warriors of justice

I ask you to please

Stop trying to cancel

The air that I breathe

For I live in America

The Land of the Free

And one thing is certain

You won't cancel me!

~Anonymous

HELLO AGAIN

Three weeks have passed since our little Queenie left us.

Her gravesite is next to four similar gravesites, and is located under a scrub oak tree in my backyard. As you can imagine, the emotional wounds are still raw. They say a pet is so much like family. I think it is during the hours and days and weeks following a pet’s passing that the truth of this adage rings the truest.

Think of me what you will. Believe what I am about to share with you, as you choose. But I have had some mighty ‘strange and wonderful’ experiences related to my dearly departed little Buddy over the years.

Shortly after Buddy crossed the Rainbow Bridge, I was lying in bed attempting to sleep when I sensed a weight against my right shoulder, and the sensation (but not the sound) of respiration. Breath in. Breath out. Again, and again.

Later that same evening, as I lay in bed, I felt something snuggle up against my feet. Buddy had always slept on a pillow which I kept at the foot of my bed. (Fifteen years later that pillow remains in its same old place). A week or two after Buddy departed this mortal strand, I was walking in my neighborhood in the early evening, and thinking about my little friend. Suddenly, what looked like a small white dog crossed my pathway, and disappeared into a neighbor’s yard. And then, in the past few months, I was seated at a table at a residential ministry where I have done counseling for a couple of years, when I felt a tiny set of paws against my leg. I could not help but well up with tears.

Pt. 2

I have made a habit of taking my little pooches for a ride on their last day of life on this planet. As we have traveled down the highways and byways, I have spoken to them, and said whatever it was I felt like saying, words such as,

“We will be together again in just a few years.” (and) “You tell your little brothers and sisters that I’m coming.” (and) “I want you to be good to the doctor when we go in there today.” (and) “All your pain and suffering are going to end soon.” (and) “You are about to take a wonderful journey.” (and) “You will fall asleep here, and wake up in the arms of Jesus.”

And given my series of ‘visitations’ after my little Buddy crossed the Rainbow Bridge, on Queenie’s last day here I added,

“If you decide to visit me after, well, you know, I need you to help me know that it’s you, and not your little sister.”

And then, and then, we were pulling back into my driveway. An hour later the deed was done, and Queenie was safe in the arms of Jesus.

I can’t account for why I have been provided the opportunity to experience these little canine miracles, (nor any number of other kinds of miracles during the course of my seven decades on this planet), but I am inestimably grateful for the privilege and pleasure they have afforded me.

But three days after my little Queenie crossed the Rainbow Bridge, I was seated at the same keyboard on which I am currently typing out these words when I experienced the scent of a familiar little creature. Queenie was back, if only for a few moments. And then, just a few days ago, as I was lying on my sofa, and my left hand was dangling off the arm, ‘something’ nuzzled me, something very much like the snout of a dog, as if my precious pooch was attempting to assure me that she was happy, and healthy and safe, and that she wasn’t all that far away.

Afterward

Now, it’s really “neither here nor there” to me what you choose to believe. I can only share my experiences, and promise you that if the same things happened to you, all your doubts would disappear like fog in the morning.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending